Messenger
by TheSacredStoners
Summary: In which the Straw Hats have so many things that they would like to say to Luffy, but can't say anything because he is so far away.


**A.N.**

This is a multi-chapter fic that takes place during the two-year timeskip. I feel that the Straw Hats' experiences during these two years weren't really fleshed-out in the manga. Also, when I don't see someone for even half a year, I rapidly lose my emotional attachment to them. The fact that the Straw Hats saw Luffy again and didn't feel awkward at all really says a lot about how much they longed to see him.

Anyway, I'll write a chapter for each Straw Hat if reception is positive enough. I decided to begin with Sanji only because I'm a huge sucker for platonic Sanlu. Bear with me, please.

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Part I: _Carried in the Waves_

After so many years, he had finally returned to Hell. Admittedly, it was nothing like the Hell he recalled from his past. He was no longer tormented by the abuse of his ruthless brothers, was no longer chained beneath the weight of that cold iron mask, was no longer harrowed beneath his father's disappointed, menacing stare. Indeed, the island on which he had landed was hardly as hellish as his childhood prison. Nevertheless, it _was_ a prison, and he had never felt so isolated in twelve years.

Sanji stood shin-deep in the coastal waters of Momoiro, gazing at his distorted reflection in the ocean. He was in a disheveled state, to say the least. His once-golden hair was ashen and gritty, descending from the crown of his head in limp strands; light bristles overlayed his unshaven jaw; and his pinstripe dress shirt was torn and stained crimson. Sanji peeled the tattered remains of the cloth away. His torso was marred by a grotesque wound that glistened where raw flesh was exposed to the sunlight. Nauseated, Sanji dipped his cupped hands into the sea and poured water over the injury, gritting his teeth as the sharp sting of salt pierced through his chest.

Sanji slipped his fingers into his pants pocket, retrieving a torn and yellowed piece of paper. On it was a tally of the precise number of days he had spent on the God-forsaken island, each thin, crooked line scratched-out clumsily in blood. A repugnant sight, he knew. Unfortunately, he had lacked the time needed to search for a more _tasteful_ source of ink.

Indeed, time, amongst many precious things, was lost to him. Sanji had gradually relinquished all sense of it, could only gaze vacantly as it passed before his eyes. Time wore on arduously, dragging him along a desolate pathway that seemed to extend an indefinite distance, and Sanji would watch the horizon for a destination that would never emerge. All the while, he would endure each excruciating, nightmarish day. He would _fight and fight and fight_ , even as his body was swollen and his bones were ground into dust. He would _run and run and run_ from those abhorrent creatures, even as his tired legs ached beneath his weight. When he listened carefully, he could hear their amalgamated shrieks. They cried out in pain, screamed for him to stop.

Sometimes, he truly did want to give in.

But he never did. Whenever he despaired, that piece of paper was his reminder.

Sanji overturned the folio to reveal a newspaper article, the contents of which he had pored over myriad times such that he could recite them by heart. However, it was not the article that he sought; it was the image that accompanied it—the image of an ebony-haired boy whose eyes were closed in muted remembrance as he held a straw hat to his chest. The smallest glance at the photograph would always engulf him in a heavy melancholia and longing that he would never openly acknowledge.

Sanji waded through the water, his bare feat sinking gently into the soft cushions of sand with each step. The ocean was beautiful that afternoon; its crystalline waters crept silently without the slightest ripple, and its surface shone with the ambient fulvous lights of the sunset. The scene was reminiscent of the halcyon days of the past, when he would watch Chopper and Usopp play rambunctiously, or listen absentmindedly to the sounds of Zoro's soft snores, Franky's tinkering and Robin's contented humming. But mostly, Sanji was reminded of the days when he and Luffy would sit together on the Sunny's railing, gazing with mesmerization at the azure abyss that environed them. "Our dreams are somewhere out there," Luffy would always tell him, grinning madly and pointing toward the yonder.

During moments like this, when he was particularly overwhelmed with nostalgia and loneliness, visions of Luffy would persist in his mind. Indeed, Sanji often caught himself thinking of his young captain, from whom he was separated by miles and miles. Was he faring well, Sanji would wonder. What was he doing? Was he alone? Was he still grieving?

(And, sporadically, Sanji would wonder if Luffy ever glanced at the ocean and thought of him.)

Sanji lifted his head toward the sunset firmament, closing his eyes as a passing gale caressed his face. Then, assured that nobody would hear him, he whispered, "I've got a hell of a lot things to tell you, Luffy. I promise I'll survive and make it back."

"Until that day comes, wait for me."

Inly, Sanji desired to be overheard, for he conceded that he would never muster the courage to relay these sentiments to his captain. The words would be eternally stifled within his heart, where they would brew and decay.

If he and Luffy truly were connected by the ocean, he wished naively that the waves would carry his message.


End file.
